


The Big Bad Wolf

by goddessofcruelty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bottom Chris Argent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Chris Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christophe Argent gets lost in the woods. Pyotr the Wolf finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Big Bad Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Petopher in the style of a fairy tale

Deep in the darkness of the forest, so far in that none dared breach its menacing depths, there is movement. A shadow slips silently through the night, the occasional flash of red eyes an indication that this creature is not of these woods. The absolute silence that surrounds it another, as the lesser fauna still their evening noises to avoid its attention. This predator does not hunt them, however, and they are safe enough in their tiny thickets and hollowed out trees. This menacing shade has larger prey in mind.

-

“That last one was off-center.”

Christophe Argent nods once, brusquely, then lifts his rifle again. His face gives no sign of the pain immediately locked down and shoved into its corner, his arms do not give into the trembling weariness that he can feel within them. Pale blue eyes are emotionless as he goes through the exercise, this time completing it perfectly with a herculean effort of will. He taps the butt of the rifle on the ground and stands at attention. He does not give into the urge to wipe the trickling sweat from his brow, or to brush a hand through his sandy blonde hair, or to shift position to relieve the pressure on his aching feet.

“Five.”

The verdict comes at last and Christophe wants to faint or cry with relief. He does neither. Simply nods once to show that he's heard and waits for the next set of orders. They come next, rattled off in the clipped tone that his father brought home from his service in the army. The boy commits them to memory. The listing will not be repeated, and any task left undone will add lashes to his tally. He is dismissed and immediately sets about taking proper care of the weapon as he has been drilled to do. This is a thing that he enjoys, and so Christophe does not begrudge that it counts as part of his free time.

He idly listens to his sister's turn, her weapon the crossbow. Christophe nearly sighs at the praise she gets over _her_ marksmanship, but catches himself, horrified that he nearly slipped. He only has five lashes to his name today, a pittance that any child could take, but were he to be caught in any indulgence of weakness, that would most certainly not be the case. Instead, Christophe sets himself a price for his near-mistake, and determines that he will run an extra mile for his evening exercise. That should set his mind back to rights.

Rifle tucked properly away, Christophe gathers the bags and baskets needed and heads off into the forest. He has a quota of several things necessary for their fall preservation, and only a limited time available, if he is to get his penance in as well. He runs at a steady pace down the well-lit path, knowing the length of it by long association, and pacing back and forth until his lungs are burning, desperate for air. And then he does five more, his self-imposed punishment for his failure. He allows himself to fall to his knees at the end, stomach wracking itself, as his is sick upon the grass. Fortunately, he has not eaten today, and so he does not lose much.

Once this small trial is over, Christophe makes his way to the stream, to rinse his mouth, and clean his face, and then he's off again once, more, but this time away from the path, and deeper into the forest. His list of duties include collecting mushrooms that can only be found in this most dangerous of places, as well as the fruits of a certain tree that is singular in the area. He has strategically rearranged the list of chores in the most efficient order, and so to allow himself a few stolen moments of unallocated time.

His bag is full of the requisite number of fruit, for which he is grateful, but now he sits at the base of the tree, watching himself bleed. He curses his stupidity, that he had not thought to bring anything which could provide wound care on this excursion with him. He could tear his clothing, which would certainly incur his father's wrath, or use one of the bags to stem the tide of crimson, which would be even worse than his clothing, for each of these has been specially made from hides that Gerard has tanned and cured himself. He's considering perhaps some of the large leaves when there's a sudden stillness about him, and the hair at the back of his neck prickles. _Something wicked this way comes_ , he thinks, wishing that he had his own weapon to carry with him suddenly.

Still, he knows how disappointed his father would be were he to sell his life so shortly and so Christophe, struggles to his feet, reaches for a stick with his right hand, holding his belt-knife in his left, balancing on his left foot, as the blood from the right thigh renews its rivulets downward. He's feeling a fair bit woozy by this time, and has to blink a few times before he's sure of what he's seeing. A shadow has detached itself from the forest and is creeping his way. He brandishes the stick, hissing softly as the movement pulls on his wound. The shade halts and turns two demonic eyes his way. Christophe curses under his breath, and then begins the Latin chant, but it doesn't faze the creature who just keeps creeping closer.

“Come no closer, foul beast,” he declares, though his voice has not the strength of manhood behind it, cracking mid-word in his emotional state. The red eyes fixate on his face, and then the thing tilts its head, stepping into a patch of dappled light and Christophe can see that it's a wolf, and now he's cursing for a different reason, for he's not brought the necessary accoutrements for that sort of undertaking either. “Be warned, wolf, that my death will be avenged.”

-

The tiniest hint of a scent brushes past the creature's nostrils, and its eyes flash a brighter hue as all of its attention focuses on catching that elusive thread of something, recognition tickling at the back of his brain. Slowly he creeps through underbrush, following that thread, until eyes of the brightest blue turns to face him. The prey swings a stick and the wolf pauses, confusion warring in its brain.

A long moment of silences wraps around them, the wolf and his prey, and it might have continued on, had not the human boy crumpled to the ground.

The wolf twitches as the prey collapses, and then creeps forward. It knows that prey sometimes acts false. He gets a nose under the prey and pushes the boy over onto his back. The wolf captures the scent of the boy and this is the thing that he had been smelling, this boy has drawn him across many miles. A long tongue swipes across the injury, tasting of the boy's essence.

The wolf rubs his head and chin along the human, marking the boy with his scent. None would challenge his claim. He uses his paw to scrape fabric out of the way and tends to all the boy's wounds with the scrape of tongue. They heal quickly under the effect of the wolf's saliva, and its not long before the eyes flutter open once more, to see the wolf on its haunches, watching him.

Christophe gingerly rises expecting pain from the injury but there is none. He pulls the rents in his shirt aside to see unblemished, unbroken skin. He looks up at the wolf, who tilts its head sideways.

“Perhaps you are not a beast of evil but a talisman of some sort,” the hunter muses aloud. The wolf's fur ripples at the sounds of the human's voice, and he rises on all fours and makes a sharp yip.

Christophe nods solemnly. “I thank you for the intervention, sir wolf, but now must take my leave, for father will be angry.”

He turns and takes a step, but the wolf is red eyed and snarling once more, dashing around in front of him. Christophe startles back, and the wolf loses his devilish demeanour, his ears perk up and the demonic eyes are once again blue.

“You wish I continue in this direction?” he asks the wolf, who makes the high pitched barking sound again. The boy nods, knowing he cannot move fast enough to get around the creature, and without weaponry, he cannot vanquish it. Grudgingly, Christophe acquiesces, turning and trudging in the direction, north east he judges, by the position of the fading color in the darkening sky.

He wonders, as the wolf herds him toward their destination, what will be at the end of this journey. He has read many fables, though father forbids them, and he spends the time spinning stories of rescuing pups in danger or being granted three wishes for helping.

The terrain becomes steeper and the trees begin to thin out and now Christophe can see that they are climbing into the hills. The wolf steers him towards a large cave, makes that noise again, and even goes so far as to nip at the boy's hell.

“Peace, sir wolf, I will enter. Tis a fair amount dark, however. Would that I had a torch.” The wolf makes a low growling sounds and Christophe sighs and enters within cautiously. It is, indeed, black as night inside, and it is only a few steps before the boy finds himself tripping and stumbling over things he cannot see.

He perserveres on, sliding his hand along the rough stone wall, placing his feet carefully. He glances over his shoulder to look towards the entrance and nearly falls as seeing the two red eyes glowing in the absolute darkness behind him. The wolf growls and Christophe sighs, turns right and continues on. He doesn't know how long he walks, but suddenly his hands find a barrier and he cannot feel his way forward. Christophe turns to consult the wolf, but the eyes are not to be seen. Pressing down on the panic that threatens to rise up, he continues to explore sightlessly.

At last the boy finds a tunnel, and crouches to put his face in. He nearly weeps as he sees a warm yellow glow at the other end, and Christophe hurries to crawl through it, tumbling out onto smooth marble.

The pale blue eyes widen as he takes in the splendour of the place he's come to, a castle or fairy palace perhaps, Christophe thinks as he turns in place. His last circuit brings him face to face with a man, a lord at least, perhaps a prince, and Christophe sketches a hasty bow, trying to recall these things from the tales, for what would a simple hunter know of courtesies.

“Christophe Argent, lord..sir..” He huffs a sigh and shakes his head. “I followed a wolf.”

The man steps forward more and Christophe takes in the fabric of clothing, the black of night with silver threading like stars, the graceful way he moves as if walking was dancing, and the bright blue eyes that look him over slowly in a fashion that sends an odd warmth to his midsection.

“So you did, boy,” the man speaks at last, voice like velvet wrapped steel, “and thus condemned yourself.”

Christophe shies back. “I do not understand, my lord.”

The man tilts his head, smiles slowly but with enough menace that a thrill of fear runs through the boy, and then his eyes flash red, that same shade as the wolf and Christophe gasps.

“Yes, child, I am the wolf. And you are now mine.”

The boy turns towards the tunnel, intending to escape with a mad dash, but the wall is seamless, no trace of escape to be found.

“You shall address me as Lord Pyotr. Come, let me show you your new home, Christophe.”

-

Christophe is bathed and dressed by silent servants who pay no heed to his pleas and entreaties. He is then deposited at a table filled with delicacies of which he has never seen the like.

“Eat, dear Christophe, you must keep up your strength.”

The boy knows the consequences of taking food in a fairy castle, and so he refuses, though his stomach protests.

“As you wish, boy.” Pyotr says with amusement coloring his voice. “Just know that there is no escape, and I can make you eat, should I desire to do so.”

Christophe yet refuses, and as he is led to his bedchamber, he is always searching for routes of escape.

-

He is still awake when Lord Pyotr comes to him, a combination of hunger and fear spiking his anxiousness. Christophe knows this part of the story too, and he refuses Pyotr's advances thrice.

It is then that Christophe finds out the tales are wrong, and that he is not in a fairy story.

Pyotr is gentle with his touches, but unrelenting, and he does not let Christophe's protests sway him in the least. The lord kisses the boy's tears away as he moves within Christophe, and once he's filled the boy with his seed, Pyotr sinks newly sharpened teeth into Christophe's neck.

The man pulls away, and the wolf returns, sliding the long healing tongue along the boy's wounds, and then curling itself up upon the bed, red eyes watching closely as the bite takes effect.

The wolf will never be alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I need to tag anything.


End file.
